My grandmother sits on the back step

I beside, and

my dear friend up there, at table.

There are birds in the sky

and the potted plants are nursing stitches.

I think I heard a cat jump

slink, fall,

escaping this domain of rust,

and smoke...

and the steam and the fire,

the roast, the white cloth and red

full hearts, having drunk their fill;

these wanderers flood a weedpatch

and there congregate in sortees

of four and six.

The juice runs down my lips,

blood's nectar glazed with sweat's

afternoon drench, and a salute

at some cirrus flagged sky

and the walker's footfalls

muffled on the closed path

beyond the gate.

The kids are wild,

their green knees contagious;

mine are bent and the ground

is open.